


How to fight for your life (when you no longer recognise it)

by dapperanachronism



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Canon Divergence - Captain America: The First Avenger, Friendship, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Newly Unfrozen Steve, Post-Captain America: The First Avenger, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-28
Updated: 2018-03-28
Packaged: 2019-04-13 21:58:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14121687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dapperanachronism/pseuds/dapperanachronism
Summary: He’s so sick of this. He’s sick of staring at the SHIELD walls. He’s sick of dealing with question after question. He’s sick of the agents, and sick of being stared at, and sick of everything.He wants to cling to this connection and try to convince himself it’s real. That it’s something that he can hold on to.





	How to fight for your life (when you no longer recognise it)

**Author's Note:**

> Written as a Tribute to Captain America: The First Avengers as part of the Cap-IM 10 Years of the MCU Anniversary. I didn't start writing fic until years after this movie came out, so I never actually had a chance to explore writing a freshly unfrozen Steve. It was a lot of fun to turn back the clock and revisit those early days. 
> 
> A huge thank you to [Robin_tCJ](https://www.archiveofourown.org/users/Robin_tCJ/pseuds/Robin_tCJ) for once again being an astounding beta reader <3.

It’s the sound of raised voices that pulls Steve’s attention away from the book he’s absently reading. His tablet is sitting discarded on the table beside him from when he had it out earlier. He loves that thing – all the news, the journal articles, the unrestricted (but not unmonitored, he’s not an idiot and SHIELD is a spy agency, after all) access to all the information he could possibly want at his fingertips. He’s pretty sure he’s acquired more factual knowledge in the short time he’s been awake at SHIELD than he did his entire time in school growing up. His tablet is great. But when it comes to reading fiction, he wants the actual book his hands. The feeling of paper under his fingers. It feels comfortable, familiar – a feeling which is in pretty short supply these days.

He sets a bookmark in place to mark his page and listens to the conversation as the men speaking come closer to the lounge that he’s curled up in. Normally he wouldn’t care about agents bickering, but this is something else. It’s Coulson’s calm voice saying, “Really, you’re not authorized to see him. You can’t be here right now.”

“The hell I can’t,” an unfamiliar voice replies. “Need I remind you, Agent, it was SI funding that led to finding him?”

SI. Stark Industries. They’re in the news constantly, for some reason or another, so he’s learned a lot about them, and he’s learned it fast. In the time he’d been out, the company that Howard had started had expanded into a worldwide mega corporation; a leader in technological advancement. It hadn’t been much of a surprise, given all that Howard was doing in Stark Industries’ early days, and all he’d contributed during the war. Of course his company would have continued on with years and years of cutting edge technology.

Steve had also read all about the tumultuous last few years that SI had had at the hands of its namesake. Howard had died a long time ago, he’d learned. But his son, Tony, had risen. He’d taken the company to new heights, and then, after going missing in the desert for three months, had re-emerged and completely changed the direction of the business. And he’d also donned a flying suit of armour and became a superhero.

So, it was a lot.

Howard, a father. Steve shakes his head. He can’t picture it. He can’t picture Howard settling down into domesticity, marrying and raising a child. But, then again, people change. Things change. Evidently.

The footsteps stop and Steve looks up to find a man who, at first glance, looks so much like Howard, Steve does a double take. But on the second look, he realises that no, while this man is clearly Howard’s son from the way he looks, the way he stands – cocky, confident, like he owns the room – he’s very clearly his own unique entity. There is something about his presence that draws Steve in immediately. Steve isn’t quite sure how to feel about it, can’t really tell if it’s a good thing or not as he rises to his feet and meets the man’s intense gaze.

Coulson is standing behind Stark, completely unfazed, and despite the fact that Coulson had ‘protested’ to Stark’s presence, there is no doubt in Steve’s mind that this meeting was at the very least sanctioned by Fury, if not set up by him. If Stark truly wasn’t supposed to be here, then he wouldn’t be standing here, staring at him.

“So,” Stark says, studying him so intently it feels like he’s boring holes inside Steve’s soul. “You’re the guy my dad never shut up about.”

Wait, what? His perception slips sideways and his brain struggles to catch up. Obviously people had talked about him, history books had been written about him. Rationally, he knew that. But it never once occurred to him that Howard might talk about him to his _family_ , certainly not to the extent that he could be deemed ‘the guy my dad never shut up about.’ Stark had caught him flat footed — a feeling he had been experiencing a lot in the past week and a half, and one he was growing to hate with every fiber of his being.

“Tony Stark, I assume,” he replied, attempting to keep himself composed and implacable. He’s pretty sure he fails.

“In the flesh,” Stark confirms. He tilts his head as though considering for a moment, and then nods. “I’ll take him.”

“Excuse me?” Steve and Coulson say at the same time, staring blankly at Stark. Steve bristles and flicks his gaze to Coulson, but before he can snap back Coulson cuts in.

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible, security reasons,” he says in his usual unflappable tone. Honestly, with the exception of the first time they’d met, Steve hasn’t seen the guy flustered once. Steve, on the other hand, is more than a little annoyed at the turn this conversation has taken. Obviously SHIELD still wants to keep him around. They want him somewhere they can keep an eye on him while they figure out what to do with him. Like he’s a tool, and not a person who’s just had his life ripped away and his reality turned upside down. Nice to know some things don’t change, at least, the sardonic voice in his head tells him. But the reality is, it feels like every second of his life in the last ten days has been dictated to him, and decided for him, and honestly, he’s getting pretty damn sick of not even having space to _think._

“Oh, so Captain America is a security risk now?” Stark spits. The two start bickering, Stark growing more outspoken and animated, and Coulson not flinching. There’s history there, Steve hazards to guess, but he cuts in, not caring about interrupting them.

“I’d like to talk to him,” he announces, authority slipping into his voice. Both Stark and Coulson stare at him. Coulson raises an eyebrow and the corner of his mouth twitches into something that might have the potential of being a smile. Again, Steve can’t help feel like he’s being played.

“Whatever you need, Captain,” he concedes, and quietly steps out of the room.

“Oookay then,” Stark says, watching him go before wandering into the room further and glancing around. His fingers never stop moving, running along the back of the couch, snapping and clicking. Even when he’s standing still he gives the appearance of movement, the impression of kinetic energy, and his eyes are constantly calculating. Not in what Steve would call an unsavoury way, just in a way that looks like he’s taking everything in at a speed faster than anyone else in the room. He doesn’t say anything at first, so Steve is the one to break the silence that’s settling between them.

“What did you mean when you said it was SI funding that led to finding me?” He asks, cutting through all the preamble. He really just doesn’t have the patience for it.

“Exactly that,” Stark says like it’s obvious. Steve doesn’t move, or respond, waiting for Stark to elaborate. Stark huffs, and continues. “SI has a small… Arctic Research Division,” Stark explains as he shifts where he stands. “After your plane went down, Howard used to send a crew up there every summer to look for you. Obviously never found you, but they gained a lot of data about the Arctic, which, as you can imagine, not a very well charted area. The team realised there was a lot of potential to be had, so the division grew. On paper it was for exploration, geographic mapping, and as times changed it shifted into resource research, environmental issues, arctic sovereignty. The frozen wasteland is a hot issue these days.”

Steve levels his gaze. “Okay, but?”

“The research is great, might be the primary focus now, but the reason it all started was that he wanted to find you. Bring you home and all that jazz.”

“Plane fell through ice. Ended up in a cavern and got covered,” Steve says, closing his eyes briefly as he remembers the report.

“Yeah. That’s why they couldn’t find it for years. Not until the tech improved.”

“Why was he looking for me in the first place?”

Stark looks at him blankly, as though he’s some kind of idiot. “Because you’re Captain America?”

Steve rolls his eyes. “I was dead.”

“Except you pretty clearly weren’t,” Stark points out. “Unless I really have gone off the deep end and I’m imagining you. Which, okay, definitely a possibility, but probably not.”

“He couldn’t have known I’d survive.”

“He didn’t think you had,” Stark says, shoulders stiffening fractionally. “But he wanted to bring your body home. He figured you deserved that much. You’re welcome, by the way. You know, for finding you.”

A surge of irrational anger and resentment wells up inside him, and the implication that Stark feels he’s _owed_ something. “So, now that you have, what’s next?”

“Well,” Stark says slowly, eyeing him warily.. “That’s kind of up to you, Capsicle. I mean, SHIELD has made it pretty clear they want to keep you.”

“And what, you’re going to fight them for custody? Stake a claim because it was your guys that found me?”

“Hey, I’m just trying to give you options,” Stark snaps back. Right, because god forbid he be allowed to make any real decisions for himself. God forbid he be allowed a moment's peace where he wasn’t wound up, on edge, with half a dozen people ‘discreetly’ watching him. God forbid he be allowed to be Steve Rogers in a world where everyone’s fighting over Captain America.

“Options. Right. Because everyone really cares about what I think right now.”

Stark’s eyes narrow. “Howard said a lot about you. But he never mentioned you were such a dick.”

He _is_ being a dick, but he can’t bring himself to care. He’s just so tired, and sick of everyone making decisions about his life, tip toeing around him like he’s going to break, or like they’re scared to offend his delicate sensibilities. If SHIELD takes, him, or Stark Industries takes him, what does it matter? Either way, he doesn’t really get a choice, does he?

“Maybe I’m not just interested in being your tool,” Steve says. “Think I’m dealing with enough of that already, thanks.” He folds his arms over his chest and stares, hard and unyielding.

Stark blinks at him, and throw up his hands in disgust. “Have it your way. And fuck you very much, too. Nice meeting you.” He turns on his heels and storms out. Steve stays exactly where he is for a moment that stretches out before him, longer and tighter until he feels like it’s going to snap. He’s so sick of this. He’s sick of staring at the SHIELD walls. He’s sick of dealing with question after question. He’s sick of the agents, and sick of being stared at, and sick of _everything._

Coulson steps back into the room just as Steve is about to hit critical mass and asks, “Is there anything I can get for you, Captain Rogers?”

“You can get me the hell out of here,” Steve snaps. Coulson opens his mouth to reply but Steve cuts him off. “I’m serious. I need to get out of here. I want my own space. I want to not be living here. With, or without your help, I’m leaving.”

Coulson doesn’t look remotely surprised, and he doesn’t try and argue. “Alright, I’ll see what I can come up with.”

==

Steve has to hand it to them, when SHIELD wants to, they can get things done fast. Two days later, he’s carrying his shield and his duffle bag that contains all of his worldly possessions as he trudges up the stairs to his new apartment. It’s in lower Manhattan. He’s been out to Brooklyn once since he woke up, but he’s not ready to move back there yet. Maybe one day, but not yet. It’s familiar and too foreign at the same time. Manhattan is recognizable, comfortable, but it’s not as jarring because it was never _his_.

The apartment is fully furnished with all the essentials, but otherwise it’s bare and utilitarian. But it’s all Steve needs.

“You’ll still be expected to keep in touch and report to SHIELD,” Coulson informs him as Steve wanders around, examining the space. “You’re still a matter of national security.” He sounds apologetic, but Steve can’t really be that upset. On the whole, Coulson has been good, better than he’d expected, really. Steve respects the man, and honestly, he’s grateful for everything that Coulson has done.

Steve nods his understanding, and Coulson takes his leave, leaving Steve standing alone in the barren space. For one brief moment, panic surges up inside him, and he wonders what the hell he was thinking. He’s adrift – for the first time since he’s woken up he’s _alone_. And it’s terrifying, but it’s also freeing. For almost two weeks he’s felt like he’s been in a holding pattern, waiting for something to happen. Then from above he hears a dull thump, like the neighbour had dropped something heavy, and he smiles. The noise of regular, everyday mundane life helps, and the momentary panic passes.

As he slowly begins to settle into his new place in the following days, the tension that had been building while he’d been trapped up in SHIELD begins to pass. He’s still in there almost every day, but having somewhere else to be and go back to helps. Not having to pass through security checkpoints every time he comes and goes outside helps. At least some days. The rest of the time, he’s up late, wandering aimlessly, and very pointedly not thinking about his empty, barren apartment.

He finds a boxing gym a few blocks away, run by an old, retired tough-as-nails guy named Pinky, of all things, that Steve takes an immediate liking to. He suspects the proximity to the gym is part of the reason that he’d ended up living in the building he had, but he isn’t complaining. He also suspects someone at SHIELD — Fury, in all probability — had had a word with Pinky, because after the third night that he’s there punching bags well past closing, Pinky hands him a set of keys and the alarm code, and tells him to just make sure he locks up when he’s done.

He’s pretty sure Pinky knows who he is, even though there’s been no announcement that Steve is in fact alive, but the guy also doesn’t seem to care. He just lets Steve do his thing and occasionally tells stories about what New York was like when he was younger and how the neighbourhood has changed. He never asks Steve anything personal, and never pushes when Steve volunteers information of his own. This place is a sanctuary, where he feels sane, and where he can fight the demons inside himself that keep him awake at night.

It’s well past a sane or reasonable hour, but he’d known early on that this was going to be a Bad Night. He’s trying and trying to wear himself out, to burn enough energy so that his mind will be too tired to keep playing the same images over and over on repeat, burned in his memory for every time that he closes his eyes. He growls, low and fierce and frustrated, and drives his fist into the bag, splitting it and ripping it free from its chain. His third one of the night. His shoulders sag, and behind him he hears footsteps and the door clanging shut.

“Bad time?” A voice calls, and Steve quickly turns to see, surprisingly, Tony Stark standing there, watching him carefully.

“It’s fine,” Steve says, even though it’s anything but fine, really.

Stark very pointedly looks from Steve, to the split bag on the floor, and back to Steve again. “Right,” he says, incredulously.

“I didn’t think I’d see you again,” Steve admitted. “Considering I was kind of a dick to you last time.”

Stark just waves him off and crossed the open space. “You underestimate what a stubborn bastard I am, and how often people are dicks to me. It’s fine, I get it. SHIELD has a way of winding people up tight, and you, my friend, had had a hell of a week.”

“You have no idea,” Steve murmurs.

“Now this is a story all about how my life got flipped, turned upside down,” Stark half sings out of nowhere. Steve stares at him blankly. Clearly he’s missing something. “Yeah, don’t worry about it. You’ll catch up,” Stark tells him. Steve isn’t convinced, but he lets it slide.

“Not that I’m complaining,” Steve says, changing the subject, “but what are you doing here?”

“Agent said I could find you here, probably,” Stark informs him. Coulson, Steve guesses. Stark seems to always call Coulson ‘Agent’. Never Coulson, or Agent Coulson, or even Phil, just… Agent. Steve’s guessing there’s a history between the two, but he’s not going to ask. He’s got other things on his mind.

“Why were you looking for me?” Steve asks, neutral curiosity rather than hostility in his voice. Stark just shrugs.

“Figured that you’ve had a few days to cool off. Thought I might try again. Since apparently I hit a nerve last time I talked to you.”

“Yeah well, not like you could have known,” Steve brushes it off, but Stark presses on.

“Yeah, well. I could have guessed. Genius and all.”

“Pretty sure being a genius doesn’t automatically make you great at people,” Steve points out. Tony stares at him, mockingly aghast.

“Excuse you, I’m charming and charismatic. And people love me,” Tony protests.

“Uh huh. Tell that to that TMZ site.” Steve feels the corner of his mouth twitch into a smile as Stark squawks in protest again.

“I can see you’ve been catching up on all the quality news,” Stark mutters. Steve laughs at that, but it’s hollow and brittle, like the brief moment of comraderie they’d managed to establish had just shattered. Stark winces. “Sorry. I just kicked another landmine.”

Steve waves him off. “It’s fine. Honestly. I’d rather that than the alternative.”

“You mean where everyone checks every single word they say around you because they’re afraid you’re going to snap? Or shatter? Or both?”

“Yeah, that,” Steve agrees.

Stark nods. “Trust me, I am intimately familiar with that, and it sucks. I’m going to take that as blanket permission to be as much of an insensitive asshole as I want to be, by the way.” For a brief flash, he looks almost hopeful, like he’s trying to offer an olive branch and he’s hoping Steve takes it.

“I get the impression you probably just say whatever is on your mind regardless of what permission you have,” Steve chuckles, a little warmer this time.

“I would say I’m wounded, but really, you got it in one. Tony Stark: I do what I want.”

“Living the dream,” Steve responds wistfully.

“So, what do you want?” Stark asks suddenly, shifting so quickly from humour to serious that it almost gives Steve whiplash.

“I don’t know,” Steve says automatically, without thinking. He doesn’t have an answer to that. His therapist would probably be thrilled if he did. But. He’s still too busy being lost. The thought makes his chest seize up, the edges of that wound still so raw they might as well still be bleeding.

Stark must see it because he shifts, and asks, “Does punching things help?”

“Sometimes. Not really, not always. But a bit.”

“Wow. What a strong, definitive answer,” Stark says, deadpan, a playful twinkle in his eye. “You feel like sparring?”

It’s Steve’s turn to level the flat stare, and he pointedly glances between Stark and the mess of ruined heavy bags. “Not exactly a fair fight.”

Stark’s eyes flash with something fierce and delighted. “Now that sounds like a challenge.”

“You… can’t actually be serious,” Steve says, but Stark is already making his way to the mats and kicking off his shoes. Steve follows helplessly.

“I am serious,” Stark calls over his shoulder as he heads for the spare equipment along the wall. “Unless you think you can’t keep up, old man.”

Well, okay then, if that’s how it’s going to be.

For a moment, the two of them circle around each other, sizing each other up. Steve plans on waiting for Stark to make the first move. They’re both wearing light padded sparring gloves, and Steve knows how to pull his punches, but he’s still very aware of the fact that he’s bigger, stronger, faster, and drastically outclasses Stark. Or so he thinks, until Stark darts forward in a flash and lands a sharp blow under Steve’s ribs.

“Come on, you made that easy, you left yourself wide open,” Stark taunts good-naturedly. Steve quickly decides it’s best not to underestimate Stark. He lunges forward and tries to land a hit of his own. Stark blocks the first two, but Steve is fast enough that Stark can’t keep up and the third finds its mark, hitting hard enough across Stark’s jaw to turn his head, and definitely hard enough to sting a little. Steve is about to step back and give Stark some space, when he feels the wind being knocked out of him as the other man delivers a hard uppercut. Steve grunts and takes the blow but before he can respond, Stark steps past him and turns, driving his left elbow back and stopping only an inch from Steve’s face.

Steve blinks furiously, and tries to figure out what the hell just happened as he takes a step back and stares at Tony in admiration. Tony, on the other hand, is staring at him in horror.

“How,” he says, shaking his head. “Who the hell even taught you how to fight?”

“No one?” Steve responds, a little confused. “I was in basic for a week before the serum, and then I was on a USO tour. And then… well when I actually started fighting it was kind of a… hit the ground running sort of thing.” He shrugs. “Got in a lot of fights growing up though.”

Stark shakes his head. “It’s a good thing you’re pretty. And fast, and strong, and stubborn.”

“What does being pretty have to do with it?” Steve asks.

Stark ignores him. “Look, point is, you’re strong and fast, but damn, it’s a good thing you _are_ fast ‘cause you leave yourself wide open. Here, let me show you a few things.”

Steve doesn’t mind, because Stark’s not wrong. Everything he learned came from ally scraps, or on the fly in the war. Even just a few minutes sparring with Stark shows him that the man knows a hell of a lot more about fighting technique than Steve does. So he listens as Stark explains how to engage his whole body and move through a punch, how to keep his guard up so he doesn’t leave himself exposed, how to keep from telegraphing his movements before he makes them. It’s… fun. He can honestly say that he’s having more fun than he’s had at all since he’d woken up. Since before then, really, all things considered. Stark shows him a few basic combos, how to break through his opponent’s defences and follow up with a strike of his own. By the time they step apart to catch their breath, they’re both sweaty and flushed.

“You learn fast,” Tony comments with approval. “Which is good. Because I definitely understand why you used to get beat up all the time.”

“Hey,” Steve protests easily, “I got beat up all the time because I was half the size of the other guys.” He’s relaxed, and off center, that’s his excuse as to why he doesn’t react fast enough as Stark darts forward, grabs him and twists, throwing Steve over his hip. A split second later Steve finds himself laying on his back on the mat, staring up at Stark, who is grinning down at him.

“You were saying?”

Steve stares up at him, and in that instant he thinks that Stark might actually be his favourite person that he’s met since waking up. Granted, he hasn’t met many people, but Stark is different from all of them. Stark’s the first to actually treat him as Steve Rogers. As a human being, not an icon to be raised on a pedestal or an asset to be handled. When he grins, Steve sees something that reminds him of Dugan’s playful nature, and Stark can hold his own around him as well as any of the Howlies could, and he looks gorgeous doing it. The thought of the past stings like it always does, but Steve pushes it aside for the time being as he takes Stark’s proffered hand and pulls himself to his feet.

“Okay, point taken, Stark.”

“Oh god, _Tony_ , please,” _Tony_ corrects him. Tony. He could get used to that.

As the two of them leave the building and Steve locks up, he feels lighter than he has in weeks. And he thinks that maybe, just maybe, there might be hope.

==

Hope, it seems, is a fickle thing, an illusion that likes to taunt him now and again, and his brain seems to delight in its misery because the feeling never lasts long. He wakes up the following morning feeling out of sorts, and it’s all downhill from there. He feels like a stranger to himself, like he doesn’t belong in his own body, like he doesn’t belong in his life, like everything is a dream and he’s just waiting to wake up. Nothing feels real.

He tries to think about the evening with Tony and how he’d felt alive. He tries to use it as an anchor to ground himself, to hold onto a positive memory that he’s formed here in his ‘new life.’ But it feels false. Sure, at the time it had felt real and true, but the reality is, Tony’s just nice to him because he feels responsible for Steve. Hell, he all but said as much the first say at SHIELD when he told Coulson that he wanted to take Steve, reminded him how SI was the reason Steve was even found in the first place.

Tony was the first one to treat him normally, and Steve just happened to cling onto that like the desperate, lost puppy he was. It feels like he’s projecting, and the more time that passes since that night, the less real it feels.

He talks to his counsellor about it, and she suggests that maybe he needs to work on giving himself permission to make connections here, that doing so doesn’t mean he’s giving up on what he had before, or make the past any less meaningful.

Thinking about that hurts, and so he tries not to. Which, of course, means that it’s all he can think about. He retreats into his apartment, and doesn’t have the energy to fight the surging thoughts.

Night falls, and he’s sitting up with his sketchbook, a single lamp lighting the apartment. He’s filled pages and pages already today. Sketches of the streets of the Brooklyn he remembers, sketches of the people that he misses, that he saw only a few weeks before, but who died years ago.

He’s midway through a sketch of Gabe and Bucky, trying desperately to get the light in Bucky’s eyes just right as he laughs at something Gabe says, but he can’t get it _right_ dammit. He grips the pencil a little too hard in his frustration, and the lead snaps, smearing the face he’s spent an hour trying to make perfect. Steve yells, pain and raw frustration filling his voice as he flings the book across the living room. He can’t see where it lands because his eyes are filling with tears, hot and angry, and his chest feels like it’s constricting – he can’t breathe, like he’s having an asthma attack only a thousand times worse, because this time it feels like his heart is trying to claw its way out of his chest.

He slides to the floor and curls into himself, pressing his face to his knees, trying to make himself as small as he can as his entire body shakes with the sobs that are now ripping through him uncontrollably. He can’t deal with this, with feeling this way all the fucking time. He just can’t. What he wants, what he actually wants is just to wake up and be _home_ again. For this all of have been a dream. He wants to wake up where Peggy smiles at him across the dance floor, where Bucky is alive, where he doesn’t have this giant fucking hole in his soul, gaping and festering as the days drag by. He doesn’t want to wander through empty days feeling like a shell of his former self, living in a life that isn’t his, that _shouldn’t_ be his.

It was never supposed to be like this. He wasn’t supposed to wake up.

He wishes he hadn’t woken up.

What he wants, what he wants right now more than anything, is to just have fucking died in that plane like he was supposed to. He’d made his peace with that. And at least if he had died, he wouldn’t have to feel like _this_.

When he’d been sitting in the ruins of that blown out bar, stone cold sober and two thirds of the way through a bottle of whisky the night that Bucky had died, he didn’t think it was possible to feel any worse. Certainly not and still live. How could a human possibly bear any more grief and not be crushed under the weight of it?

But this? This is so much worse. He’s still carrying everything he felt that night, but now he knows that it _is_ possible to pile more on. God, he wishes that could be something he never found out.

He cries until his eyes dry out and finds that at some point he’s moved and pressed himself up against the wall, letting it support the weight of his body since he clearly can’t. He’s read that crying is supposed to make you feel better, but he doesn’t feel better at all. He feels hollow, wrung out, and like he’ll never have the energy to move from that spot.

He loses track of time after that. The worst of the sobs have subsided, but he’s still hit with the occasional wave, like all of his feelings are still scrambling to evacuate. He wishes they would just hurry up and get it done so he didn’t have to feel anything anymore.

His pocket chimes, and at first, the sound doesn’t register for what it is. Then it chimes again and Steve realises, startled, that it’s his phone. Which… doesn’t really make sense. His phone doesn’t go off. He doesn’t have anyone who’d try and reach him. No one even has his number except SHIELD.

Fumbling, he pulls the little device out of his pocket, hands shaking. There on the screen is a notification that he has a message. From Tony Stark.

Tony had swiped his phone and punched some stuff into it before they’d left the gym the other day, and Steve hadn’t thought anything of it at the time. Apparently, it had been so he could get Steve’s phone number.

He opens the message and reads:

_You will never believe what I just found_

The next message is a photo of a terrible, low quality Iron Man action figure knockoff dressed in a pink tutu. Steve is still staring at the picture when another message comes in:

_Wait, you do know about Iron Man, right?_

Without thinking, Steve responds.

_Yes, Tony. I know about Iron Man. Kind of hard to miss that, even for me_

 

_Well I’d hope so. I mean, you read TMZ after all, and the gossip rags had a field day with that_  

 

  
_Everyone had a field day with that from what I can tell_

_What can I say? I know how to draw a crowd_

_Also why are you awake? Please tell me I didn’t wake you up_  

 

  
_You didn’t. I wasn’t asleep_

_Right. Well since we’re both awake and I’m hungry, let’s get pancakes_  

 

  
_At 2am?_

_Steve, sunshine, 2am is the BEST time for pancakes. Come on, I’m going to rock your world._

And somehow, Steve can’t say no. Without even thinking about it, he manages to drag himself to his feet, wash his tear stained face and make himself look a little more presentable. There isn’t much he can do about the puffy redness around his eyes, but it’ll fade quickly enough. He hopes that maybe Tony won’t notice, or at least will be kind enough to not comment.

As he makes his way along the streets towards the address that Tony sent him, Steve wonders briefly just what the hell he’s doing. The answer is, of course, that he’s clinging to some modicum of human interaction and kindness, because the reality is that sitting alone in his apartment wishing that he’d died is… not good. It’s not going to end well for him. Even he knows that.

For a fleeting moment, he contemplates why Tony would reach out to him, of all people, in the middle of the night, but he doesn’t have the energy to pursue that thought. The cool night air might be refreshing, but his head is still a fuzzy mess and he’s not thinking much beyond ‘walk.’ So he shelves the thought, but it’s still sitting there prominently, just under the surface.

Tony is already at the diner when he arrives, and Steve slides into the booth across from him. Diners are different now, but this one still has a retro vibe that Steve can identify as having originated in the post-war years. For a half second, he thinks Tony might have chosen this place to appeal to him, but as the waitress arrives at the table and asks Tony if he’d like “the usual, darlin’?” Steve recognises that this is a usual haunt. The waitress turns to him, and greets him with a warm smile.

“Well now, I’m glad you finally brought a friend along,” she says to Tony, while looking at Steve. “What can I get for you, hon?”

“I’ll have the same, ma’am,” Steve says without thinking. She smiles again, fills both their coffee cups and hurries back to the kitchen with their orders. As soon as she’s gone, Steve realises his mistake in agreeing to come. Now he’s sitting across from Tony, he realises that he’s going to be expected to make conversation, and honestly… he’s not sure he has it in him.

But it turns out that he doesn’t have to worry, because Tony can carry a conversation all on his own, and he launches into telling Steve about how he’d found the ballet Iron Man online, and that segued into Tony talking about about what he was working on at the time, and suddenly… it’s easy. Tony hauls the conversation along, and Steve has enough space to ask questions without feeling awkward or pressured. Tony seems happy to explain things Steve doesn’t understand, but he’s not patronizing about it. By the time their food arrives, every napkin on the table is covered in pen diagrams from Tony explaining things to Steve, and he stops only long enough to shove a bite of pancake into his mouth and wash it down with another swallow of coffee. Steve follows suit, and takes a bite of his own, and then freezes, eyes widening.

“Holy-”

“I know,” Tony grins.

“These are-”

“The best pancakes in the city. Bar none. And they always taste better in the middle of the night. I don’t care if it doesn’t make sense, that’s just how it is. A mystery of the night.”

For weeks, he’s been eating just because he has to, not really taking an interest in it beyond caloric and nutritional need. Before that it had been rations, and whatever else they could cobble together in the field. This is the first meal he’s had in longer than he remembers that he’s _enjoyed_. And that simple pleasure that comes as he takes another bite makes him feel just a little bit better.

Tony talks all through the meal, and long after they’ve both finished, and the longer they’re here, the more comfortable Steve feels, and he joins in more with thoughts and comments of his own until he’s feeling sure enough to speak what’s been on his mind since he arrived.

“Look, Tony, thank you. I appreciate this,” he says slowly, choosing his words carefully.

“But?” Tony asks, looking cautious.

“But. I don’t want you to feel obligated to spend time with me. Or feel like I’m some kind of responsibility. It’s okay, really.”

Across the table something close to relief flickers across Tony’s face, as thought he’d been prepared for something worse. Steve frowns, but doesn’t question it.

“Steve. Trust me. I’m not doing this because I feel obligated, or because I feel sorry for you. That’s not my speed. If I didn’t want to be here, I wouldn’t be.”

Steve opens his mouth reflexively to argue, but closes it a second later. Because the thing is, he believes Tony. He might not know Tony well, but he’s seen the way that Tony acts around other people. He’s seen the way Tony acts at SHIELD, and how he acts in interviews, and it’s not like this. That Tony is guarded, calculated, and a bit of an asshole. But this Tony, the one who teaches him how to block a punch, who sends him photos of Iron Man dolls in the middle of the night, who takes him for pancakes, that’s not a Tony’s who’s just being nice because he feels bad for someone else. That’s a Tony who’s letting a realer, softer side show. And the other thing is, Steve gets it. He gets having the difference between public and personal image. He understands having to create a face and play the game. Sometimes it’s just to get shit done, and other times it’s necessary to just survive.

“Alright then,” Steve says, easing slightly. “Thanks Tony.” Thanks doesn’t begin to cover it. He can’t fully explain the way Tony saved him from his own dark backslide, how he hadn’t realised just how how afraid he was of being alone tonight.

After some squabbling, Tony ends up paying the bill, but Steve manages to convince Tony to let him pay the tip. Together, they head outside and Tony offers to walk back to Steve’s apartment with him. Steve puts up a token protest, because it’s a 20 minute walk in the wrong direction, but Tony waves him off, saying he could use the walk, and he’ll just flag a cab to get home after. Steve doesn’t argue, because truthfully, he wants the company for as long as he can get it. He wants to cling to this connection and try to convince himself it’s real. That it’s something that he can hold on to.

The walk passes too quickly, and before he knows it they’re standing outside Steve’s building.

“Well, this is you,” Tony says, coming to a stop. “This was fun, we should do it again some time.” He gives Steve a jaunty wave goodbye and turns to leave.

“Tony, wait,” Steve calls, and Tony turns back to look at him. Tony looks tired, Steve realises, worn out, and a little sad. And in that second Steve realises. Realises that maybe he’s not the only one standing here carrying a burden on his soul. Maybe he’s not the only one who’s unsure about being alone for the rest of the night. Steve steps closer, into Tony’s space, but Tony doesn’t pull away. In fact, he leans closer, until they’re all but breathing the same air. Before he can think better of it, Steve presses a soft, feather light kiss to Tony’s mouth, hardly more than a brush of their lips. He pulls back, and Tony blinks at him in surprise. For a terrifying instant, Steve thinks he’s misjudged everything – that Tony’s laser focus on Steve all evening, the way his smiles and laughs had been abundant, the way he’d grinned at Steve like Steve was the only person on the planet – but then he sees the slow smile spreading across Tony’s face, and suddenly Tony is kissing him back, snaking an arm around Steve’s waist to hold him close. Steve closes his eyes and welcomes the moment, committing everything about it to memory, the way he can feel Tony’s heat, the way Tony’s lips feel against his, the way they reluctantly pull back so they both can catch their breath. The way it feels to drop his head to Tony’s shoulder and let out a shaky breath as Tony’s fingers rub along the small of his back.

He commits it all to memory so he knows, so that he never forgets.

He’s not alone.

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi on [tumblr](https://dapperanachronism.tumblr.com)!


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